


This Time Around

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3734965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Zayn's always thought that his and Harry's tale should be told in moods and hazy memories. In colors and feelings and emotional declarations at midnight, palms pressed together as they held each other underneath firework displays and made promises they could never really hope to keep."</p><p>Harry used to be everything Zayn wanted. But somewhere along the way, Zayn became less sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syrenhug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrenhug/gifts).



> For your third prompt, "Write out of order." I took a little liberty with some of your suggestions, but I hope you still enjoy the story. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read over this fic for me. You have been exceptional. 
> 
> Title from the Tove Lo song by the same name.

Zayn likes to think that if Harry told the story, it would be neat. Straightforward, linear. A logical progression of events, because that's the model of good storytelling Harry was taught. Beginning. Middle. End.

But Zayn also likes to think that he's got some insights that others don't always have. Zayn knows that sometimes structure is a luxury. Sometimes there's no room for tiny details and logic, for sense. Sometimes things just are what they are – not straightforward, not linear. Certainly not neat. Zayn knows that there can be a whole host of ends, intermissions, digressions, and fresh beginnings, and he definitely knows that when it's his story, he has the leisure of telling it how he wants.

Zayn's always thought that his and Harry's tale should be told in moods and hazy memories. In colors and feelings and emotional declarations at midnight, palms pressed together as they held each other underneath firework displays and made promises they could never really hope to keep. Said things they only maybe half-meant. Zayn's memories of Harry were always bathed in the smell of Harry's shampoo and the salty sweetness of the inside of his elbow. The way Harry chewed his gum before pressing it into the pocket of his cheek, leaning in for a kiss.

So Zayn thought about it a bit, about his and Harry's narrative. About all of their digressions and mistakes, about their false ending and new beginning. About the tale of their epic love and their legendary indiscretions. And since it's Zayn's story, it goes a little bit like this:

 

 

When it first really ended, in that way that all endings seem like final, lifelong ruptures, it hadn't actually been Zayn's fault. This was a surprise to many people, Zayn included.

Harry had left his phone blinking on the kitchen counter while they had been making dinner. Harry found some recipe for stuffed peppers online that he wanted to try, and he'd left the beef and garlic simmering while he dashed off to the toilet. They'd been talking about bills – the same sort of shit they always talked about now that they were both adults with careers. Bills and rent and coordinating trips to Tesco. Adult shit, not the fun sort of banter they used to whisper against each other's mouths with wide, childish eyes and candy coated sticky hands, the whole world still beautiful and blue like a rare cloudless summer day in the country. But they were kids when they first met, students in uni with no understanding of what love really meant, so maybe that was all right.

Zayn was nursing a glass of wine, a splurge purchase from the week before. Zayn sipped on the red and tried not to look when Harry's phone vibrated against the counter, the bright light from the screen flashing frantically up at Zayn.

Later, Zayn would say that he had _always_ suspected something – calls that Harry could only answer out in the hallway, Harry suddenly working late nights at Oxfam. The sorts of details wronged lovers always cite when they claim to have known something was amiss. Zayn would swear up and down that there was some higher power directing him to pick up the phone and punch in Harry's passcode, following the exact movement of fingers that Zayn had seen thousands of times over the past three years.

But in reality, Zayn hadn't suspected anything. He hadn't known anything was wrong on Harry's end, and he certainly had no sense that he'd been playing the role of a slighted lover. Zayn had thought they were headed towards a proposal and marriage, actually. No higher power was directing Zayn to snoop – he was just being a curious sneak, mainly, and wanted the phone to stop pinging with annoying notifications.

Zayn skimmed the series of text messages from a name he didn't know and a number he didn't recognize. Zayn couldn't even recognize the dialling code. His fingers clenched around the screen, the cold material biting into his skin as his eyes clouded over with tears that wouldn't stop, even hours later when Harry had gone to kip on someone's couch, apologies tangling his tongue, and Zayn was alone.

Zayn would never admit it, but he had been absolutely blindsided.

  
  


Zayn and Harry's story was the complicated sort, even by the time of their first real date. They'd known each other throughout uni, through boyfriends and girlfriends and fucking in the loo at their friends' flats regardless of aforementioned boyfriends and girlfriends, but at least this time around things were different. This wasn't sneaking about, this wasn't coming and feeling the heat of twisted shame and gleeful sexual satisfaction. This was a first date and they weren't doing anything wrong for once. They were having _fun_.

Zayn and his ex had been done for almost a full year now, but Zayn had almost entirely forgotten in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Going ice skating at the London Eye had been Harry's idea, because ice skating was the sort of novelty activity Harry enjoyed. Harry liked all sorts of silly things – shopping, pretending as though he was actually decent at sports, cooking in his tiny kitchenette, getting absolutely pissed, falling down drunk and somehow managing to make it look endearing – and he'd even coyly admitted two weeks previously that he liked _Zayn_ , too, and wanted to take him out. Harry was sweet like that – the type of boy who still looked at London like this giant puzzle he'd yet to fully connect the edges of, a boy whose eyes twinkled at the idea of taking the bus across the Thames and walking along the South Bank after they'd gotten their fill of ice skating.

Harry brought along his pair of sparkly golden skating boots for the special occasion, because _of course_ he would want to look like a giant Christmas tree with his oversized green coat and white cashmere scarf. Zayn laughed as he pulled on his rented black skating shoes before hauling Harry in close, bathing in the warmth of Harry's gaze. They made their way onto the ice with giggles and unsteady strides, and Zayn knew he had to clutch onto Harry's hands because ice skating had never really been his forte.

Harry's cheeks and nose were tinged red from the cold and Zayn couldn't help but quip that Harry looked like Rudolph, but Harry just grinned and squeezed Zayn's palms, taking these long, lunging strides and dragging Zayn along. Zayn was certain they looked ridiculous, had screamed as much as they made another lap around the rink, but Harry just smiled wolfishly as his scarf flapped in the wind.

It was just a first date but Zayn could already feel that familiar swelling in his lungs every time he caught Harry's eye. Zayn always fell _deep_ , lost himself entirely in the heat of a lover's hands and the deceptive currents of their smile. He'd never admit it out loud, but Zayn felt helpless to the pull, stubbornly told himself to take a deep breath before actually going under this time.

Zayn closed his eyes, and if he blocked out the noise of the crowds and focused on the warmth of Harry's palm, the moment almost felt like happily ever after.

The story could've stopped there, and if Harry and Zayn were different (better) people, maybe it would've. But these two weren't anywhere near the end.

  
  


Harry and Zayn didn't fight often, but when they did, they were always big, overblown confrontations. The type where they would scream and have neighbors bang on their walls. The type that ended with someone sleeping on the sofa or someone fucked over the side of it. There was no in-between.

Harry complained that Zayn was an inattentive lover – that Zayn worked too much, that he spent too much of his free time smoking up with his former flatmate, Louis. Harry wanted to take vacations in Spain and have dinner at expensive restaurants all around London. Harry wanted to live fast and without abandon, and while this quality was what drew Zayn to Harry in the first place – Harry's everything-goes persona and outlook on life – Zayn also found it endlessly frustrating.

Zayn complained that Harry was childish and clingy – that Harry went out too much like he was still in uni and spent too much of his free time drinking with Nick and Cara and Jeff and a whole host of people Zayn didn't particularly care for. Zayn liked his job, liked working, and he certainly wanted to have vacations in Spain and to take Harry out, show him off, but those sorts of things were expensive and Zayn still felt guilty about not returning to Bradford after graduation anyway.

Harry, the romantic that he is, would probably say that they were both too passionate. Zayn, the pragmatist he pretends to be, would retort that their fights weren't that glamorous. They, like millions of other couples, argued about money.

  
  


Discovering that Harry cheated felt like the end. Because Zayn had been blindsided, had felt so betrayed. He'd given three years of his life to Harry. Zayn'd had so many firsts with Harry – first real commitment, first actual boyfriend, first discussions about kids and marriage. Zayn had been so serious with Harry – or at least in the ways he knew how. He'd been _trying_. So, so very hard.

And Harry had been fucking someone else.

“And everyone was telling me to be _so careful_ with you.”

Zayn could feel the snarl on his face. The whole thing felt like a waking nightmare. Harry had walked back into the kitchen, snaking his arms around Zayn's waist from behind. His hands were as damp, same as the breath that he ghosted across Zayn's neck. His murmured, “What are you looking at?” was directed almost entirely against Zayn's skin. And that was –

Zayn's entire body tensed. Froze, really. There was a brief, hesitant moment where Zayn wanted to lock Harry's phone again, place it back exactly where he found it and smile at Harry like nothing was wrong.

There was a moment where Zayn was willing to _pretend_ , where he was willing to act as though everything was fine. He'd lied about being all right before. He'd lived whole years of his life in a fantasy, playing pretend and spending nights praying for his own happy ending. Deception had always been a part of the game, even sometimes with Harry. Zayn was certainly capable of living in denial again.

But the consideration only lasted for a brief, hesitant moment. Because Zayn threw Harry's phone back onto the counter, where it clattered and continued to shine bright. Harry's conversation with some bloke named Aiden was there for both of them to see. To feel, to react to.

And then they'd started to fight. Although “fight” might not even be the right word for it. Zayn's body had certainly leaped into the fight or flight mode, his entire core trembling with the rising surge of adrenaline, but Zayn couldn't even _look_ at Harry. Harry, his boyfriend. Harry, his best friend. Harry, the boy he had tried to stay away from all those years before. (And who Zayn still couldn't quite believe was real.) Harry, who had promised to love Zayn with everything he had – with selfish, unforgiving energy. Harry, who had chased Zayn _relentlessly_.

Zayn was carrying a ring in his pocket for Harry. Zayn had still been waiting for the right time to ask. And now it felt like that right time would never come.

Harry. The boy who had been cheating on Zayn for _months_. At least that's what it looked like, and Zayn had always prided himself on his exceptional critical thinking skills.

So it wasn't a fight, not really. Maybe it was a one-sided confrontation. Because Harry wasn't engaging in the argument. He wasn't throwing his shoulders back. He wasn't denying what Zayn had seen, wasn't insisting that Zayn had somehow misunderstood. He wasn't even chalking the affair up to _joie de vivre_ like he typically did whenever he got tangled up in something stupid. Harry was just standing there. Standing against the kitchen wall and staring at Zayn, green eyes wide and _guilty_.

And that was probably what hurt the most – that Harry wasn't saying anything. That he wasn't defending himself. That he was almost resigned to Zayn's anger. Where was the boy who had said Zayn deserved someone who would be devoted? The boy who had stubbornly insisted that their earlier affair had to mean something? The boy who would bite at Zayn's lips and leave bruises on his hips, smiling coyly when Zayn's shirt rode up and exposed a constellation of love marks? Why wasn't Harry insisting that Zayn had gotten everything wrong?

Why wasn't Harry lying to Zayn?

“Everyone told me to treat you right, to get over myself and be an adult – act like I was actually in a fucking relationship for a change. And I have, Harry. I've been so good – I've done everything. And you know. I love you so, _so_ much.”

Zayn wasn't sure when he actually started to cry, but the tear tracks made humiliation stir in his gut, bile threatening to creep up his esophagus. Zayn was _crying_ and he was bracing himself against the kitchen sink, knuckles white and straining where he was trying to keep himself still. From doing what, Zayn couldn't be sure. All Zayn knew was that he didn't cry – he kept his emotions bottled up tight, and when things got to be too much he turned the water in the bath almost punishingly hot, making his skin red enough to almost hide the pinkness of his eyes. Zayn didn't cry, and he especially didn't cry in front of Harry, because Harry was a sympathy crier and Zayn hated to see Harry's skin go mottled as a result of Zayn's own stupidity and insecurity. But Zayn was crying now. Harry should be doing something to make him stop. Harry should be gathering Zayn up in his arms. Harry should be making this right. But Harry wasn't doing anything.

Maybe Harry couldn't.

An extremely bitter part of Zayn wondered if Harry _wouldn't_.

“Everyone seemed so sure that I would cheat. But – fuck. It was you, Harry. Everyone should've kept their eyes out for _you_. _God_.”

Harry bowed his head, running his hands through his hair. It looked like he was almost tugging at his own roots. When Harry raised his head again, his eyes locked with Zayn's. Zayn couldn't even begin trying to read the emotions dancing across Harry's face, but Zayn thought he saw a flicker of something that strongly resembled remorse. Harry wiped a hand over his mouth, huffing and shaking his head, before making his way out of the kitchen.

Harry hadn't said anything to defend himself. (The apologies would come an hour later.)

Zayn took a deep breath before turning the heat off on the stuffed peppers and running his fingers over the ring box weighing down his pocket. On the other side of the flat, Zayn could faintly making out the sound of Harry locking their bedroom door shut.

  
  


Zayn couldn't even remember the first time he and Harry truly met. Zayn knew that Louis had introduced them, but, truth be told, Harry hadn't made much of an initial impression. Just another pretty face in a whole sea of them, a gangly, smiley white boy at a stranger's house party. Zayn was in a long-term relationship at the time, and Harry was, too. They'd both been distracted, shook hands when instructed to do so, made small talk over shots of whiskey, and then returned to their respective significant others. That had been it.

But that's the thing about first impressions. Sometimes they're dead on, accompanied by a roiling in the stomach or suddenly sweaty palms. Instinctual reactions to indicate that something about this person is off – or that something about this person is intrinsically right, a quiet bell twinkling to let one know that they've haphazardly locked onto someone special. But sometimes first impressions are absolutely wrong. And looking back (or maybe looking forward, looking sideways, looking at however it is time actually fucking moves), Zayn could see that his first impression of Harry had been an absolute farce. Zayn wouldn't have ever guessed that this boy, the boy with a baby face and cool seawater eyes, the boy clutching hands with a lithe blonde girl he twirled about the room, would ever mean so much to him – first dates, last loves, first real heartbreak.

There had been no roiling in Zayn's stomach. No sweaty palms. Zayn just finished off the rest of his whiskey and buried his nose into his own girlfriend's hair, breathing in the scent of her fruity shampoo and thinking dazedly about catching up on sleep, topping up his Oyster card, and picking up milk for his tea when he woke up in the morning.

  
  


Zayn and Harry met at an interesting point in both of their lives. Both enrolled at LSE, Harry studying Environmental Policy while Zayn was a History major and a year above. Zayn had always wanted to be a teacher, assumed he'd end up teaching English, honestly, but that was before he'd done so well on his GCSEs and realized that perhaps he could do more than just enroll at a local uni. Zayn hadn't ever actually assumed he'd get into a school as prestigious as the London School of Economics, but life was funny like that sometimes.

His parents were certainly proud, even if they were sad to see Zayn leave Bradford. Zayn had been nervous about the big change himself – he'd never even gone to London to visit before. But luckily enough, Zayn's roommate, Louis Tomlinson, was a good lad from Yorkshire studying Government who (un)fortunately seemed more interested in pulling tricks than going to his classes. Louis had struck Zayn as being almost unpleasantly boisterous initially, but after the first semester, they had already established themselves as partners in crime. Louis made Zayn think about all of the good things he had at home, really. Lou had a tendency to leave trainers all over the room just like Doniya did with her heels, and Louis' murmured conversations with his younger siblings eerily mirrored Zayn's own hushed catch-ups with Safaa and Waliyha.

Zayn also met Perrie Edwards early into his first year, and he'd quickly tried to establish something real with her, even though he didn't quite know what a legitimate relationship actually entailed. A petite thing, Perrie was from a tiny little coastal town in Tyne and Wear that Zayn had never even heard of before. Zayn had harbored a childish crush on her for months, enraptured by her icy blue eyes, silky blonde hair, and outgoing demeanor. Zayn always felt a bit like he was getting away with something just by hanging out with her. It wasn't like there hadn't been girls like Perrie in Bradford, but girls like Perrie certainly hadn't given Zayn the time of day. And yet here Perrie was – asking Zayn if he would come out to the library with her to study and always inviting Zayn to watch films with her roommate Jesy. Eventually Pez and Zayn got to a point where Perrie would squeal loudly when Jesy would toss her pillows at them, annoyed that Zayn and Perrie had ended up snogging during all the dull parts _again_. It was nice – _Perrie_ was nice, a sweet girl who reminded Zayn of montages in films. Everything Zayn had dreamed of when he would read books about going to the school of your dreams and finding a nice girl to settle down with.

  
  


By Zayn's third year, things were close to perfect, at least on the surface. He and Perrie were stronger than ever, all minor indiscretions aside, and Zayn, Perrie, Louis, and Louis' girlfriend, Eleanor, had finally gotten their act together and rented a tiny flat not far away from Warren Street. It was a tight fit and not always comfortable, but it worked, and every Thursday they would host “family dinners.” Uni and Zayn's internship were going well, too. Even though Zayn still struggled to speak up sometimes in his smaller courses, he was still excelling, and definitely on track to graduate in time. By just about every superficial metric, Zayn was doing well.

None of these successes had anything to do with why he decided – soberly, rationally – that he was going to have sex with Louis' good friend, a second year named Harry Styles.

  
  


The infidelity, lying, and sneaking around is the part of the story Zayn wishes he could gloss over. Exposing flaws and picking at scabbed wounds are not things Zayn particularly enjoys. Not like Harry, who finds some sort of morbid amusement in their shared sins. As though there is something intriguing and almost tragically beautiful in sordid affairs and the slow, lingering mascara tracks tears make as they slide down smooth, pale skin. But Harry's obsessed with the idea that he and Zayn are unique, that they're special. Zayn's less certain.

Although if you had asked Zayn at the time, he would've been quick to tell you that what he was doing with Harry was _not_ an affair. It was _fucking_. Purely physical, all about the release. Meaningless and casual. And Zayn would insist that while Harry might want to pretend as though it meant something to him, too, that would've been a lie. The feelings didn't come for years afterward, and when they did, they were as destructive and all-consuming as Zayn would've assumed they'd be. It was a shit thing to do to Perrie, but ultimately the cheating wasn't as bad as it could've been.

No, when Zayn and Harry decided – soberly, rationally – that they were going to both cheat on their significant others, it honestly hadn't been because they were in love with each other. They hadn't even gotten so far as to assume that they would do it more than once.

Zayn thinks that makes it a little better, but he knows Harry would disagree. Harry would say that it makes things worse. And he'd say it with a knowing smirk.

  
  


They were at a party. Doesn't really matter where, or why, or how. Those were the sort of details that escaped Zayn's memory either way. But they were at a party, and Zayn was in a _mood_. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't high. But he was in the frame of mind where he wished he was both.

He and Harry weren't exactly friends at the time. They orbited in similar circles and were frequently forced into awkward conversations because of Louis. Zayn actually thought Harry talked too much. He was always going on and on about his girlfriend, and like – Zayn didn't care. He really didn't. If anything, Zayn thought Harry's girlfriend was annoying, too.

But that night, Harry was quiet. Uncharacteristically so. He was still talking, but the ambling trajectory of his words was more introspective and self-deprecating than usual. And Zayn was in a mood. The type of sulks he would get in sometimes, focused inward frustration suddenly lashing against its cages and roiling outwards. The cause of this sulk had been dumb, really. Earlier in the day, Perrie had retold a story about so-and-so's ex-boyfriend asking her out on a date. Perrie had laughed it off. Zayn hadn't.

It wasn't that Zayn ever thought Perrie would cheat – he knew she wouldn't. But sometimes Zayn would look at Perrie and wonder _why_ she wouldn't.What she could ever see in Zayn to make her believe that Zayn was a good person. The type of person you're faithful to. Zayn wasn't sure he even understood the fucking concept himself.

So it's another one of those things that Zayn doesn't like to think about or admit, but Zayn approached Harry because he knew that Harry was feeling low, too. Because he knew that Harry would be amenable to the suggestion. Later, Harry would be the one who scratched at scabbed skin and asked uncomfortable questions, but in that moment, Zayn wanted to pick and prod.

(There had been rumors about Harry, too. Awful, offensive things, like Harry was always down for a good time, that Harry was exceptionally talented with his mouth. Zayn would never admit to it, but he'd thought about these rumors quite a lot.)

And Harry let him. Didn't even seem like a real person with how quickly he acquiesced to Zayn's suggestion, a quiet, “Let's just go to the loo, yeah?”

The music was thrumming through the floorboards and rattling the tiny window, serving as a distant hum that reverberated through Zayn's ribcage even as he watched Harry watch him back. Everything was hazy and shaky as though Zayn had been chugging booze and lighting joints, but honestly the only intoxicating substance in the room was Harry.

Zayn had heard Harry talk just about a million times about how he'd given his girlfriend this paper airplane necklace as a gift, some shit about it keeping them grounded even when they still needed to fly, but Harry was wearing it on his neck tonight. Zayn wondered what had happened, but he also figured it wasn't his business and he didn't really care. Either way, Zayn was fascinated by the way it tangled up in Harry's other jewelry when Harry moved to toss his T-shirt off. A paper airplane, a cross, a star of David, all sliding against the backdrop of smooth, tanned skin and a litter of nonsensical tattoos. Everything about Harry was disorienting but Zayn just wanted things to make _sense_. Which was always his problem, of course. Trying to force sense into situations that had no logic, and constantly doing things he'd put no thought into.

Zayn never felt more solid and in the moment than when he crowded Harry against the sink, digging his fingers into Harry's hips and guiding him to face the dingy mirror on the wall. They were a close fit, groin to ass, but Zayn laid the palm of his hand against Harry's lower back, pressing hard against Harry's backbone. Zayn almost wanted to get on his own knees in supplication as his eyes slid over the sinful image Harry's bowed back created. The wide expanse of sweat slicked skin, the low tease of denim, freckled arms pressed up against someone else's toiletries. It was the perfect mix of lust and feigned domesticity, and Zayn startled himself with how much he _wanted_ this. Zayn almost wanted to test himself more, try to decipher what about this particular image was so enticing, but he settled for committing Harry's low, answering groan to memory instead.

It's strange, but Zayn would only remember bits and flashes from then on out – the hiss of Harry's leather belt sliding through the loopholes of his jeans. The window vibrating along to Cheryl Cole. Harry's groans and harsh, ragged breaths. The intoxicating smell of their shared arousal, and the sight of Harry's rim stretched first around Zayn's fingers and then around Zayn's hard cock, condom and lube nicked from the cupboard. Zayn hadn't known that this was something he'd ever do, but as his stroke became stuttered with desperation and his rapidly approaching climax, Zayn also wondered how he'd ever thought he'd get off to anything else.

Still, when they both came, it wasn't with their mouths sharing breaths and kisses like some sixth form fantasy. They didn't even come with the terrifying realization that they'd started something new together. It sounds awful, but it was nothing like that.

When Zayn and Harry had both came, that was it. They'd both used each other for their own means. It wasn't anything deeper than that really.

And from there, Zayn could remember more bits and flashes – the slide of denim across Harry's pink, raw skin as he got dressed again. Harry wiping at his eyes and running the pad of his index finger over lips he'd chewed to shreds. Then, finally, Harry turning to regard himself in the mirror, pressing clinically against a bruise Zayn had sucked on his neck before pulling his shirt back on.

They exited the loo a few minutes apart. Zayn spritzed perfume he had found in the back of the cupboard, the soft notes of lavender doing nothing to mask the scent of their sex.

  
  


When Harry cheated (and begged for Zayn's forgiveness for _days_ , buying gifts and sending texts that would go unanswered, cooking Zayn's favorite meals and offering to take him out to all of his favorite places, go out to art shows and underground rap concerts and other things Harry usually never even gave a shit about), Zayn's life went on something of a downward spiral. He didn't acknowledge Harry more than he absolutely needed to. He didn't answer his phone. He blamed himself loads, thought of all the things he should've done differently in the relationship, because of course there were plenty. His appetite all but disappeared. He worked himself ragged, painted a bit, but nothing else seemed appealing anymore.

Zayn wishes he could elaborate, make this part of the story fuller, richer in detail. But suffice to say, if there was a color to describe this period in his life, it was the dusky purple of the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year.

There are some things Zayn would just rather keep to himself, and Zayn always found descriptions of deep depression and melancholia to be rather dull.

The abstract of this particular excerpt ends with Harry leaving Zayn and their flat anyway.

  
  


Two months after Harry left, Zayn discovered Harry's shiny gold ice skates in the back of their closet. Zayn had wanted to throw them into the bin, but he couldn't. Louis told Zayn he could come by the flat and take the skates back to Harry, but Zayn just.

Zayn just couldn't.

Louis tried his best given the circumstances – Zayn was sure he did. But Louis was friends with both Zayn and Harry, had introduced them of course, and Zayn didn't want to make Louis pick sides (even though Zayn's side was obviously the right one).

Louis had warned Zayn anyway. Louis had been the one who jokingly told Zayn about all of the rumors swirling around Harry during their uni days. Told Zayn about all of the times Harry chased fit boys and girls just for the thrill of it. Recounted the numerous instances Harry had fucked off behind his girlfriend Taylor's back. Louis had murmured that Harry got off on the pursuit, loved snogging strangers and making everyone like him, and Louis warned Zayn not to take any of Harry's words too seriously. Harry was Louis' friend, but Harry still had a reputation after all.

But Zayn knew he had a reputation, too. Knew that people said he would fuck anyone with a pulse and that Perrie had been a fool for staying with him as long as she had. Perhaps his and Harry's similar backstories explained why Zayn thought they would end up together. The foolish belief that sharing the same flaws was enough of a foundation to share a life.

  
  


About a fortnight after the shiny boots discovery, Zayn used the blade of Harry's skate to destroy his smart phone. Zayn was feeling maudlin and Harry had just texted him. Allegedly, he was still sorry. Zayn didn't really care. He didn't care so much that he bought a bottle of whiskey and broke the screen of his phone.

Zayn bought a Nokia a few days later and changed his phone number.

  
  


Zayn and Harry had been dating for something like four months when Zayn first brought Harry around to meet his family. Zayn knew that it was a Big Deal, especially for his siblings who had come to love Perrie as something of a sister when they were dating. It had been hard for them to watch that particular relationship draw to such a painful close, and Zayn knew they were all mildly wary of Harry. Zayn had been adamant that Harry had nothing to do with his and Perrie's breakup – because Harry hadn't, honestly – but the suspicion and skepticism remained.

Zayn and Harry took the train out of Kings Cross, even though Harry insisted that he was fine with making the four hour drive. But Harry owned this giant Range Rover at the time and Zayn wasn't entirely sure how his family would react to the image – Zayn coming back to his modest family home with a posh white boyfriend, Zayn himself newly hired on the Communications team of a popular gallery in Chelsea. It was a good job and Harry was a good person, but Zayn also knew what it would look like. It was already so much, asking them to accept Zayn's bisexuality. Zayn didn't want to shock his family more than he already had over the past few years.

Zayn's mum picked them up from the train station and took her time driving back home, chatting Harry up where he was sat in the passenger. Harry and his mother both seemed to get along well, talking about Harry's home life before Zayn's mum took to pointing out “landmarks” as they drove by. Zayn's old boxing gym, their mosque, some of the schools Zayn had been kicked out of for fighting. Harry took it all in with rapt fascination, asking all sorts of invasive questions about Zayn's childhood. Zayn tried not to squirm in the backseat, interjecting whenever the stories got to be a little too embarrassing.

  
  


The whole family was over for dinner – aunts, uncles, and cousins all piled into a tiny two-story house. A decidedly one-sided Liverpool-Newcastle game was blaring on the telly, and Harry made his way over to everyone gathered there to introduce himself. Zayn stood back and watched him, completely in awe of the boy who went out of his way to speak to Zayn's family first, loud and absolutely intimidating as they could be.

It was a fairly nice day, so the entire family ate outside, balancing their plates on their knees. Zayn and Harry shared a chair that creaked under their combined weight, and they loaded up their plates with Zayn's aunt's famed beef samosas and more servings of Murgh Shahi Korma that they quite knew what to do with. Zayn's cousins crowded around Harry and immediately began pelting him with a shit ton of weird, inappropriate questions, most of them revolving around his childhood and what it was like not growing up in a huge as fuck family, but even that felt nice. Zayn watched Harry handle the interrogation with ease, Zayn smiling and elaborating whenever he felt like it was right, but mostly content with sitting back and watching Harry do his thing.

That quiet hum Zayn could remember feeling when he watched Harry ice skate settled back into his bones. Everything about Harry made Zayn feel settled, truly. As though home really could be a person. As though faithfulness and monogamy were things that Zayn could actually do if Zayn wanted. Would actually _like_ to do this time around.

Zayn examined the feeling, caressed it between his palms, and hid it for safekeeping.

  
  


Sometimes when Zayn was alone in the flat he and Harry once shared, Zayn would ruminate and wonder who he was fooling. He had always excelled in spending a great deal of time and energy denying who he was and what he was all about. Hiding pieces of himself from judging and prying eyes. He knew that all of the evidence was there to be sifted through, carefully cataloged, dissected and completely rationalized. There was only so much that a smile could hide, and even though Zayn was good at pretending as though the demons (and the pretty girls) weren't his constant companion, sometimes the weight of their presence was enough to cause his knees to buckle, his bottom lip to shake.

After Harry left – or after Zayn checked out emotionally because Harry cheated, _whatever_ – Zayn carried on the only way he knew how. He knew that it wasn't healthy to throw himself into work with wild, careless abandon. He knew that everyone around him was concerned. He knew that there were some people who thought he hadn't given Harry a fair shot and hadn't let Harry explain. He knew that a lot of people snorted over his behavior, called Zayn a hypocrite and a cheat himself. Zayn knew a lot of things. Zayn had always been smart, but he hadn't been smart enough to see the dissolution of his and Harry's love coming. He hadn't planned for it. Not at all.

And it seemed like the end in so many ways. The end of a fairly significant chapter of his life, definitely.

But the story still had some pages left in the back of the book. So it wasn't an ending. No, still far from it.

  
  


“He means a lot to me, Baba,” Zayn murmured. “I honestly . . . I don't know. He's really special. I think he's it for me.”

Zayn and his father were sitting together in Zayn's parents' tiny living room. Zayn and Harry were two and a half years into their relationship, happily so, and Zayn had wandered into Selfridges a few weeks back, ostensibly looking for a gift for his mum. He'd perused a lot of the inventory before he made his way over to the small selection of men's jewelry, running his fingers over a silver ring from Seven London. It was certainly the sort of ring Harry would wear – large, gaudy, and expensive. Zayn stared at it for a long time, wondering whether it would be appropriate enough to serve as an engagement ring until Zayn really got his life together and could afford something even pricier.

It was the first time Zayn had thought about taking a concrete step toward proposing to Harry. The idea had certainly crossed his mind before, a passing fancy of sorts, particularly after they'd had fights or Zayn'd done something he regretted, but this was different. This felt like the swell of strings at the end of some underdog sports film. It felt huge, and yet not as daunting as Zayn would've expected. So Zayn knew then that he should talk to his family about it. Pick his Baba's brain, get a sense of what Zayn would need to do to make this real. To make Harry his, forever.

Zayn's father hummed, sitting back in his old, beat-up chair, which creaked and groaned same as it always did. Zayn remembered being a child, getting overwhelmed when all of his cousins would come over to the house. There would just be so much _noise_. And Zayn's life was never entirely quiet, not with so many siblings around, but Zayn found himself craving the illusion of tranquility. Sometimes he'd seek refuge in his room and play with action figures until the urge to hide passed and he could muster up the emotional energy to speak to others again, plaster on the face of extroversion that was required in big families. But sometimes his Baba would come find him, and they would sit in that old chair, rocking back and forth until the shaking in Zayn's veins passed and he felt something like a human again.

“I just want what's best for you,” Zayn's father replied. “This Harry of yours – he's still so young.”

“He's only a year younger than me.”

“You know what I mean, Zayn. Maturity-wise. He's somewhere else entirely sometimes.”

Zayn frowned. “I don't know what you mean, Baba.”

“I'm not sure I do either,” Zayn's father huffed, tilting his head thoughtfully. “I can see why you're drawn to him. He's spontaneous, very charming. And Perrie was, too, but she still managed to be more subdued when needed and less inquisitive. Harry's _clever_. And just. Sometimes I wonder about him. Not that I think he's a bad person or that he'd do anything intentionally to hurt you. But I _am_ curious as to where he thinks your relationship is going – if he's put any real thought into it long-term like you have. That's all.”

Zayn wanted to push, ask for clarification, but he was also terrified what his Baba might say if he did. Zayn's father was the quiet sort. Introspective, just like Zayn. But when he did talk, people always made sure to listen. Zayn's Baba just picked up things about people, could see who someone was at their core. Zayn liked to think he did, too, but he missed out on important details all the time.

  
  


A year later, Zayn's Baba would admit that it didn't surprise him that Harry had an affair. Zayn wanted to ask if that was what he has going to say that night Zayn first began discussing a potential engagement. Zayn wanted to prod and pick his father's brain, figure out what Yaser saw that Zayn had overlooked or explained away, but in the end, Zayn figured it was best to remain quiet once more.

  
  


Zayn and Perrie had been broken up for several weeks by the time Zayn finally ran into Harry again. It was weird – Zayn and Harry had an on again off again thing during the latter months of Zayn's relationship with Perrie, but Harry had completely disappeared in the weeks prefacing Zayn and Perrie's implosion. Ultimately, Perrie had left Zayn because she heard that he had been sleeping around again and this time she was “completely over it.” Strangely enough, this particular rumor hadn't even been true. Zayn saying that “ _this one_ ” was a lie probably hadn't helped his case, though.

So it was the truth that Harry had nothing to do with Zayn and Perrie's break-up. He was just the immediate beneficiary.

It was New Year's Eve. Louis had gotten it into his head that he really wanted to party at the Southbank Centre and see the fireworks, and so he encouraged everyone in his friend group to purchase the super early bird tickets for something like £77. Zayn normally spent his winters in Bradford, but the idea of going up to visit his family without Perrie had sent him into a mood (and a panic), so he'd bought the now £120 ticket for the party and stayed with Louis in their shit flat over the break instead.

He and Louis drank at home, drank some more in the taxi, and then continued to drink once they got into the party. It was a beautiful night, everything warm and soft under Zayn's Jack Daniels gaze. When Zayn caught sight of Harry from across the dance floor, it felt like something out of one of his mum's romance novels. Harry was politely making his way through the crowd with windswept hair and rosy cheeks. Zayn hadn't even known Harry was in town. He looked like a daydream. He looked like trouble.

The entire night was a blur of fireworks and shots, but Zayn remembered pressing his palms against Harry's while they stood outside and shared a cigarette.

“You know, it was never just sex for me.” And Zayn would never admit it, but he could remember Harry whispering that, chapped lips dragging against Zayn's cheek. “And I was hoping you would phone or text after you and her were done. I was waiting for it.”

Zayn blew out a column of smoke. For a brief nonsensical moment he wished it was a hookah instead so he could play with the smoke, give himself more time to process what Harry had said. But Harry was looking at Zayn expectantly, clearly waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.

“I can't let people think that you're the reason she left me,” Zayn murmured. “That's not fair to you, and at the end of the day, it really had nothing to do with you anyway. It wasn't that sort of thing.”

Harry hacked out a laugh. “She knew you were cheating, Zayn. She just got it mixed up as to who with. And come off it. You could've shagged anyone you wanted, but you kept coming back to me. I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good.”

Zayn hummed, shrugged his shoulders. Stared off across the Thames and thought about how many of these sorts of conversations had played out against this river's banks. So many people over the ages had probably assumed their concerns were uniquely troublesome, but Zayn knew better.

“You can lie to everyone else, Zayn, but you can't lie to me,” Harry continued, his green eyes wide but challenging. “And I'll be waiting for you. You know I will be. I'll always be here for you.”

Harry squeezed Zayn's palm and Zayn dropped his head onto Harry's shoulder, taking a long, shuddering breath that did nothing to settle his nerves.

  
  


They didn't kiss when it turned midnight. Zayn was too busy snapping his hips and jacking Harry's length in some dirty toilet stall, so focused on the task at hand that he didn't even realize the countdown was going on.

  
  


About a year after they broke up, Zayn and Harry still managed to end up together. Another party. More fire. Although this time it was Guy Fawkes Night at Zayn's mate Liam's place, and Zayn had ducked out front for his smoke the exact moment he realized Harry was in the house. Zayn wanted to leave entirely, truly, but he'd gotten a ride over with Louis and El, and they were having such a lovely time. Zayn didn't want to be that guy, even though it hurt to look at Harry, and even though Harry had followed Zayn outside, standing around awkwardly in the middle of Liam's drive.

“You know, I was so sure you'd be different,” Zayn admitted. “I thought you'd make me feel it.”

“Feel what?”

Zayn shrugged, flicking the ash of his cigarette and hoping it would land on Harry's suede boots. He _really_ didn't want to be having this conversation. “Dunno. Something.”

Harry cocked his head to the side. It should've been a challenging gesture, but it wasn't. Not yet, at least. Just curious – because Harry was never anything but morbidly curious. Getting involved in shit that was never his fucking business. Saying things just to get a reaction. Trying to make every stranger his best friend. All the little things about his personality that drove Zayn mad, like cheating with an old fling. Getting sloppy with it. Leaving his phone on the kitchen counter where his boyfriend could stumble upon the evidence. Not even denying it when it came up. Had Harry not learned anything?

“I didn't make you feel anything?”

Zayn blinked. Zayn knew there was no such thing as stupid questions, only the ones left unanswered, but this conversation was approaching something close, especially because Harry had to already know how he made Zayn feel.

“Being with you made me sad.”

“Sad? Being with me for three years made you feel nothing more than sadness?”

And _there_ was the challenging stance. Harry throwing his shoulders back, crossing his arms over his chest, and almost baring his teeth in his aggressiveness. It was nice, almost – the idea that they were fighting over something that wasn't Harry's impulsiveness or Zayn's distance or fucking money. If Zayn was still capable of it, the sight would've sent a trill of arousal through his veins. But instead – nothing. Just the lingering bitterness of regret and the fierce desire to leave. Zayn had checked out of this relationship for a reason.

“I didn't make you feel anything beyond sadness? That's bullshit and you know it, Zayn. If I didn't make you feel good, you wouldn't still be so hurt about it now.”

“ _You_ cheated on _me_ ,” Zayn hissed, his own anger flaring hot like the bonfires swirling about town. “You stepped out and got caught. You don't have the luxury of playing martyr this time around.”

“I'm not playing martyr. And you're hardly one to talk. You know I heard the rumors – the Swiss girl at the gallery, and then that other bird who always used to ring your phone. But – I'm just trying to understand why you didn't give me a chance to explain. Why you wouldn't hear me out – ”

Zayn scoffed, flopping his arms against his sides. “What's there to understand? You broke my heart, Haz. No bullshit. You cheated on me. That's it. And you already know that. And that's not fair – bringing up all those rumors. I explained it all to you, time and time again. And you agreed with me that it was all bullshit. You said you trusted me.”

Something on Harry's face gave, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. Without the bravado, Zayn could see all the ways that time had begun to take its toll on Harry's countenance. He looked _tired_. But it had been a year. They were both older if not necessarily any wiser. Zayn had just never thought that he wouldn't be around Harry every day to watch the slow progression. The possibility hadn't even crossed Zayn's mind. But here they were.

“I never meant to hurt you, Zayn,” Harry plead. “You've got to understand that. And I – I cannot live without you. I really can't. I tried but it's not living without you there. That's why I came here tonight. To see you. To beg for you to take me back.”

Zayn hummed. He was down to the filter, but Zayn wasn't going to burn his fingers listening to Harry speak. He'd already felt the scalding heat of Harry's poor decisions once before. He wasn't a fool. He couldn't do this to himself. He _wouldn't_.

Zayn excused himself before he could let himself get too caught up in Harry again.

  
  


Zayn liked to think he became more introspective after he and Harry broke up. Zayn knew that he said a lot of things and had a habit of getting caught up in a fair amount of nonsense. Zayn cheated and lied. Zayn denied feeling emotions that kept him awake at night. Zayn tried to fight against who he was and what he wanted. Zayn made promises he didn't know how to keep.

Zayn knew that sometimes he was the delusional sort. The type who absolutely relished in living in denial. He recognized all of these things about himself.

Still, it felt good when one day Zayn woke up and realized he wasn't _angry_ anymore. He wasn't upset, he wasn't bitter. His heart wasn't squeezing with a regret that had come to be his constant companion in that shitty flat he and Harry had started living in almost five years ago.

Zayn wasn't angry at Harry anymore. At this point, Zayn could recognize that it was hypocritical that he ever had been. He just wanted Harry back – wanted to try out Harry's new recipes for dinner, concluding the night by playing old records at top volume. He wanted to go back to fighting about money. He wanted to fuck Harry over the side of the sofa and wake up with Harry's hair in his mouth. Zayn wanted Harry, in all of his complicated, perplexing glory.

And if Zayn dialed a number that hadn't been in his phone for two years but which he still had committed to memory, to head and to heart – _well_.

  
  


If Zayn were more honest with himself and with this story, he might not have omitted so many details about the happier times. Those simple, quiet moments where it was just the two of them, Zayn's entire core leaping with how much he _loved_ Harry. Being with Harry was fun, and everything else aside, Harry was a genuinely good person. They had so many memories together – washing dishes after ordering takeout, Zayn wiping the suds across Harry's cheek. Playing Scrabble on Saturday evenings, the game always devolving into who could come up with the naughtiest words, with the winner pinning the other down and staking his victory with a kiss. Choreographing whole dance routines to Jessie's Girl and laughing when Harry backed Zayn up against the wall, waggling his eyebrows and asking whether this could be their first dance one day.

As it were, Zayn frequently accused Harry of playing the martyr, but Zayn indulged in the urge sometimes, too. Thinking of Harry's green eyes and then getting lost in the sense of betrayal. Because that was what kept Zayn up so many nights. Not so much the fact that Harry slept with someone else because Zayn knew that it had really only been that, but the idea that Harry had lied to Zayn about it for months. Harry hadn't even had the good sense to make sure he didn't get caught.

There are just some things you should keep to yourself. Zayn had always believed this.

But Zayn still loved Harry. In that stupid, foolish way that people always seem to embrace the lovers that cheat on them. And it took some time, but they did get back together, Zayn ringing Harry up and asking if he would like to meet up on the South Bank just like how they used to do, back when they were both uni kids with no sense of what they were doing, sneaking around and falling into something almost like love.

  
  


And if Harry never really found out about Zayn's own concurrent affair, the one Zayn had done such a good job of denying – well. Harry hadn't been the only cheater coming into their relationship.

 


End file.
